


Gentle Hands

by DrabblingSparks (ingenious_spark)



Series: Saint Seiya prompts & short fic [99]
Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, Healing, Implied Murder, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Prompt Fic, magical healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/DrabblingSparks
Summary: Rhadamanthys heals Sylphid after a mission gone south. He's said to be the least caring of the generals, but his care is intense, and so reserved for few people.Gentle Hands make light the work of healing.





	Gentle Hands

**Author's Note:**

> From a list of prompts over on my tumblr, [@oopsbirdficced](http://oopsbirdficced.tumblr.com). I open prompts semi-regularly, if you want to come check me out. 
> 
> Set at some point before Lost Canvas, so the Dryad mentioned here is not Dryad Luco.

Rhadamanthys stares broodingly at the still, unnaturally quiet form of Sylphid in his bed. He’s asleep, and it’s strange to see him like that, without the ferocity and animation that characterizes his waking self. He seems vulnerable, and the possessive aspect of Rhadamanthys’s soul, the wyvern within him, is both pleased to see that vulnerability and angry about it.

Pleased to see that Sylphid is comfortable enough to sleep, deep and peaceful, in his presence. That he trusts Rhadamanthys to keep him safe.

Angry- nay,  _enraged_ \- at what landed his Basilisk here, in his care. That some lousy Gold Saint had dared lay hands on that which belongs to Rhadamanthys. Sylphid’s lower left leg is broken in three places, but he’d killed the Gold Saint and escaped with the knowledge he’d been sent to procure.

Their Dryad had advised, clinical and emotionless as always, that it might just be easier to kill Sylphid and have him retrieved from the Hall of Awakening. Sylphid had been forced to fight on the broken leg, and the bones had ground and splintered against each other, shredding his muscle within his skin. This Dryad prefers not to waste his healing Cosmo spells on injuries that will take so much time and effort to heal.

They will need a new Dryad come the next Holy War, for Rhadamanthys had torn out his throat and consigned his soul to the Cocytus for suggesting such a treatment. Aiacos will be vexed with him, Dryad is one of his division, but Rhadamanthys doesn’t care.

Rhadamanthys calls Cosmo to his hands. He’s not the best of healers, but he has had a long time to practice. Still, he’s going very slowly with the process. He doesn’t want to cripple one of his own. It takes him a while to cudgel his energies into the soothing flow of healing, and then he finally lowers his hands to Sylphid’s carefully splinted leg. It takes immense effort and concentration to realign all the tiny splinters of bone, and he’s only halfway through the process after a full two hours’ session already. Time to try again.

Sweat drips from his brow when he finally surfaces from the trance, bone finally fully set, and Cosmo spurring Sylphid’s natural healing at a faster rate. Rhadamanthys’s throat is bone dry, and when he looks, a full two candlemarks and half of a third have burned away.

He steps away and cleans himself up, pouring a cup of juice from the pitcher he’s had nearby.

Then he realizes Sylphid’s eyes are open, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He hastily pours a second cup of juice, and carries it over to Sylphid.

“You should drink,” he says roughly, and Sylphid nods weakly. Rhadamanthys sets the cup down, and slides behind Sylphid, propping him up against his own body, careful not to jostle his leg. Then he takes the cup and holds it gently to Sylphid’s lips. Sylphid uses his own shaky hand to guide Rhadamanthys in helping him drink, and once the juice is gone Rhadamanthys cradles him against his chest. Sylphid smiles shakily up at him, the healing leaving him weak as Rhadamanthys’s Cosmo within him channels Sylphid’s own Cosmo into repairing bone and muscle and flushing toxins from his system.

“You know,” he rasps, and then coughs a bit. Rhadamanthys holds him steady. “They’re wrong about you.” Sylphid says, voice hoarse. Rhadamanthys frowns a little.

“How so?” He asks softly, shifting a lock of sweat-damp white hair from Sylphid’s face.

“They say you care the least of all the Generals. But it’s the opposite. You care so deeply you can only care for your own division, and no one else.” Sylphid explains.

“I… care for my brothers,” Rhadamanthys objects, but in his heart he knows Sylphid speaks the truth. Minos and Aiacos are the exceptions, not the rule. Sylphid just smiles at him, smugly knowing. Rhadamanthys rolls his eyes, and where he would usually gently cuff Sylphid’s ear, he instead eases him back down onto the bed. “Sleep, my Basilisk,” he orders, and Sylphid nods, reaching out to take Rhadamanthys’s hand, reining their fingers together. Rhadamanthys nods silently, settling in beside him to guard the currently most vulnerable of his treasures.

**Author's Note:**

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